


Metal

by Trobadora



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-27
Updated: 2009-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:32:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The machine has pinned her completely.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Metal

The machine is holding her down.

A forearm braced across her shoulders, above her breasts, inches away from pressing into her throat.

Her arms are free. But the machine has pinned her completely; no amount of struggle will be able to dislodge its hold.

Sarah strains. Her muscles bulge, but the machine is unmovable. It holds her still.

She looks up into a face that seems human: eyes wide, lips parted, a parody of human expressiveness. But the skin isn't flushed: there was and is no exertion. The machine's movements are effortless, its strength unfailing.

Flesh. Blood. Skin.

Eyes she can't read at all.

_Should have known girlie can't be trusted._

She _had_ known; necessity had overridden those concerns.

Eyes, hair, mouth, figure - created in the image of what it is meant to destroy. One must never forget that.

Her hands, sweat-slick from futile effort, are grappling desperately at the terminator's arms and shoulders as she twists and shifts.

If she looks hard enough, she thinks she can see the cold metal under the seemingly frail girl's skin.

She imagines she can feel the metal of the endoskeleton under the flesh, under the skin.

Can feel it under her own hands, can feel it when those hands touch her.

As they're touching her now.

She wants to cry, No!

She wants to demand, Let me go!

But she doesn't.

She's burning, flushed with the shame of it - yes, the shame, believe _that_, Sarah, it's better than the alternative - -

She's shifting, twisting under the implacable terminator, trying to -

Trying what?

She no longer knows.

She no longer dares ask herself as metal fingers - _metal_, not flesh and bone, not a _woman_ above her, only a woman's likeness made of coltan and artificial blood - as metal fingers push roughly into her.

She bites her lip; she tastes blood.

The terminator's eyes grow wider, the perfect mimicry of surprise.

Terminator. Killer. Bringer of death.

Implacable, unfeeling, unrelenting.

Beautiful.

_Why?_, she'd asked earlier, when it had started.

_I have observed your reactions_, had been Cameron's response.

One of the machine's knees is between her thighs. Her - _its_ legs, pinning hers.

Her jeans - ruthlessly shoved down just enough to give Cameron access - wrinkle uncomfortably under her thighs.

The terminator's thighs are deceptively slender. But the flesh is an illusion; it's the metal that's real - it's the metal a twisted part of her _wants_ \- -

Long fingers slide deeper into her. A thumb moves against her clit.

Sarah knows what is under that thin veneer of human likeness; she has seen it. Has seen terminators with an endoskeleton just like hers, the skin and the flesh burnt away, the metal still coming after her, relentlessly ...

... just as relentlessly as those fingers are now pushing into her, thrusting, as Cameron finds a rhythm ...

A rhythm: steady, regular, probably measured precisely in nanoseconds. Fingers driving deep into her, sliding out again. Again, and again.

And again.

Again, at a torturous rhythm that won't - speed - up.

The heels of her boots dig into the floor. Desperately, Sarah tries to grind up against Cameron's hand, but the terminator's thighs still hold her lower body too tightly.

She won't cry out.

She won't beg.

But her mouth is open; her heartbeat's too fast; her muscles are contracting around the metal inside her. She's panting harshly, and her flush definitely isn't shame now.

Not _just_ shame, anyway.

Cameron keeps to her rhythm, keeps driving her fingers into Sarah, keeps rubbing her thumb against Sarah's clit.

A machine's rhythm, an automatic rhythm - she could keep going like that forever, staring down at Sarah with wide eyes, her artificial tongue showing between her artificial lips, her hand moving, moving ...

... _metal_ inside her ...

... _metal_ looking down at her, implacably ...

"Why?" she asks again, gasping, not expecting an answer but needing to ask anyway.

Cameron doesn't stop her movements. She keeps going, relentlessly.

Her voice, when she speaks, sounds calm. As calm as it always does.

"You wanted it."

Metal fingers twist.

Sarah screams.


End file.
